


The Hunter's Oath

by thefandomsinhalor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cabin Fic, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Celestial Castiel (Supernatural), Destiel Reverse Bang | Dean/Cas Reverse Bang (Supernatural), Fantasy, Isolation, M/M, Mountains, Protective Dean Winchester, Slow Build, Snow, Supernatural Elements, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 02:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefandomsinhalor/pseuds/thefandomsinhalor
Summary: Tasked with the important tradition of fulfilling an Oath to a celestial being, Dean is feeling the weight of loneliness more and more, after years of isolation on the mountain.Until one night, he is gifted a surprise: the god himself shows up with the desire to explore their bond for a time.Dean goes along with it, having no choice, and prays that nobody notices he might have failed to keep the mountain undisturbed. When he learns more about his new companion and the truth behind the legend, however, Dean finds himself picturing a different kind of life. One that isn’t as solitary. And perhaps, even more peaceful than anticipated.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 75
Collections: Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2021





	1. Part One: The Hunter and His Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my entry for DCRB2021 and I can honestly say that I can't believe I made it.  
> This fic has truly been a challenge to write. [deliciousirony's art piece](https://delicious-irony.tumblr.com/post/645943364180672512/the-hunters-oath) was so gorgeous, I wanted to do it justice, so I'm glad I kept at it, and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> And thank you to [Danica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danica_Dust/pseuds/Danica_Dust) who is probably the most generous and kind person I know. Your help is always appreciated and that's an understatement.  
> A big thank you to Landrala as well, who is having quite the day right now. 😉
> 
> Happy reading!

His boots sinking into the deep snow, Dean quickly repositioned his crossbow on his left shoulder, feeling it sliding off, before making his way through the thick forest.

Daylight had arrived, so he quickened his pace, not wishing to be late.

Although the wind was brushing against the trees, he didn’t feel the biting cold on his face.

He was shielded from it. And his one-of-a-kind leather jacket and thick knitted scarf had nothing to do with this.

Something else was doing him this kindness.

Soon, halfway down the mountain, he passed the old, broken down palisade, and after a few minutes of struggling in the snow, which was now nearing his knees, he eventually spotted a lone rider among the trees.

His monthly appointment and Dean’s sole link to the outside world.

Having wondered who the brave soul was that had volunteered for the task this time around, Dean was pleased to discern a kind, familiar face, as he approached.

Garth Fitzgerald, the Fourth.

After greeting him warmly, Garth climbed off his horse, with a genuine smile on his face. “The beard is still nice on you.”

Dean let out a laugh, as he instinctively scratched it.

“Thanks, Garth. And nice to see you, too. Lost a bet again?”

“Absolutely not. I know some folks aren’t too keen on venturing this far out during winter, but _personally_ ,” he added in a playful tone, “snow and trees don’t scare me that easily.”

Dean had to hold down a grin at that.

If only that was the case.

After Garth had untied the bag from his saddle, they carried on with the usual exchange. Dean’s monthly supplies for the next month’s list, and a mail trade.

“Every item that was on your list is in here, and we even got you another bag of coffee beans because you said you could do with half the sugar.”

Pleased, Dean opened the bag to get a quick look. He was surprised, however, that the first item he found was of a circular shape, wrapped in a cloth. Something Dean hadn’t included in his order.

“Bess wanted to bake you something,” said Garth after Dean glanced at him questioningly. “Coming here last month had been a last-minute arrangement for me. I was glad to do it,” he added quickly, “but having known ahead of time, we would have taken the opportunity to include something from the both of us. That’s partially why I volunteered again, and this time, we made sure you’d have a pie.”

Touched at their kindness, Dean smiled shyly. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

“Our pleasure, Dean.”

Satisfied with his order, Dean then gave Garth his new list for the next month’s provisions, as well as the single envelope he had been carrying. Garth scanned the list and nodded approvingly at him.

“It shouldn’t be a problem. And with the pelts you gave me last time, you’ll be fine with another order still.”

“You think?”

“Affirmative.”

Garth then retrieved a small envelope tied to a small package by a thin string for him. Immediately recognizing his brother’s neat handwriting on the envelope, Dean grinned and tucked it safely in his jacket.

“Now that the boring part is out of the way—”

“You get to tear my ear out with the village’s gossip for ten minutes?”

“And you know it!”

Dean shook his head, amused at his friend’s eagerness. Chitchatting had never been Dean’s cup of tea. But these days, socializing only occurred on a monthly basis. Sticking around for a few minutes wasn’t the worse idea, he judged. After all, not much must have happened during the previous month.

As it turned out, Garth had a lot to report. Much more than Dean had anticipated. First off, the Styne family had hosted, as usual, Tulpa’s annual festival and it had been quite the celebration, and Dean believed him. He remembered hearing the bells ring all the way to his cabin a few weeks before.

The entire village had participated. Gourmet meals and ghost stories had been shared. A small snow maze had been created for the children and adults alike.

And, of course, the traditional re-enactment of the tale of the Legend of the Mountain had been the highlight of the event.

“Everyone was thinking of you,” Garth made sure to tell Dean.

Which he knew they had.

And yet, he found himself having to force a shy smile on his face.

Then Garth moved on to other news. Bobby Singer had apparently returned to business with Rufus Turner—for the fourth time—and Aaron Bass had taken over his grandfather’s practice. The Avila siblings were Missouri Mosley’s new apprentices. And none other than Jo Harvelle had turned down a suitor, the second this year, a young man from two villages over, and many people had been talking.

Which hadn’t surprised Dean one moment, having been himself on the reciving end of the village’s gossip for far less.

Knowing Jo, however, he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of one person daring to share their opinion on the matter with her. Or worse, Ellen, her mother.

“And finally, Gertie is soon going to be a big sister,” said Garth gleefully.

Beaming at him, Dean cheered. “You kept the best for last! Wow. That’s amazing, Garth. Congratulations.”

And because Garth was friendly that way, he hugged Dean tightly.

“Thank you. We’re very excited.”

With the sun fully risen, now peeking through the branches above them, Dean knew it was time to let Garth return to the village, and for himself to head back home.

He congratulated his friend once more, and added, “It was nice seeing you. Thank you for volunteering this month again.”

“It’s no problem, Dean. The least we can do is to support you. Just—everyone is saying hello, as always. And I know it’s complicated, but I—don’t be a stranger. If you can spare the time.”

For the second time that morning, Dean forced a smile on his face, unable to find the right words. He didn’t want to lie. But he didn’t want to say the truth, either.

He couldn’t.

So, he simply nodded, smiling as convincingly as he could, and waved at him.

He watched Garth return from where he had come from, making his way down the mountain, towards the small, quiet village.

Dean took a deep breath, tightened his grip on his bag, turned on his heels, and began climbing.

As was usually the case, his journey back took longer. Climbing up the mountain demanded more effort than going down. Dean took a few breaks along the way to catch his breath. His left leg, which had been aching a lot more lately, hadn’t simplified his task, either. Nor did the bag of supplies he was carrying back with him.

That being said, Dean brought back game from hunts with him all the time, and while carrying a heavy load was at times demanding, at that particular moment, he knew this wasn’t the main issue.

The _emotional_ weight was his predicament.

As it always was on the days when he had to pick up his monthly provisions.

Feeling his throat tightening, he let out a cough, as though he wanted to cover it up, despite the lack of audience around him, and continued his route.

Now was not the time for sentimentality. He would have plenty of time for that later, once home.

If he still felt like it by then, of course.

Focusing on his breathing, Dean attempted to ignore the faint pang in his chest, and soon enough, he emerged from the thick forest and was immediately comforted by the sight of his cabin. It was quaint with bright windows that nearly warmed him up on the spot.

The cabin was situated on a rather steep part of the mountain, near the top, and seemed like it was only still standing due to otherworldly forces.

Dean reckoned, however, that the ruins on its left, remnant of a time long gone, was perhaps the guilty party for reinforcing this mystical vibe of the cabin.

That and the unique scenery of the Mountain.

More specifically, the _face_ of the Mountain.

But that spectacle could only be appreciated to its fullest in one specific spot: at the sacred archway, which was located slightly higher up the mountain, nearing the edge.

Very few people had had the opportunity to stand on this sacred spot and admire the view. Only the current resident of the cabin was privy of this honor.

Before reaching his door, Dean glanced at the archway, momentarily tempted to take a morning stroll. But remembering that he still had to drop off the supplies and tackle on the day’s tasks, he let out a sigh and headed inside instead.

Keeping his boots on, he took off his jacket and other winter attire, after shutting the door behind him.

His cabin was a cozy and simple home. The open space was divided in two areas: the kitchen and the living area.

The square table was in the middle of the kitchen, with two wooden chairs, which Dean never understood why. Only one was needed. Herbs were hanging from the ceiling over the counter, not far from the small—improvised—pantry on the left. And on the other side of the room was the fireplace, which was used for both heating and cooking purposes, and a rocking chair was next to it.

The living area consisted primarily of an armchair and a bed. A cedar chest, with a guitar on top of it, was by the foot of the bed, which was covered by an impressive number of blankets.

And there was a single shelf in the middle of the wall displaying numerous leather-bound journals. Fourteen of them, to be exact.

And one more on the rocking chair, where Dean had left it.

It wasn’t much, but it was his home.

As he began unpacking his supplies, he carefully left the pie on the table for now, and retrieved the bags of coffee beans, grains, nuts, and so on, and started transferring their contents into empty jars he had prepared just for that. He then retrieved the two bottles of whiskey, immediately shelved one in the pantry, along with the newly filled jars, and put the second bottle of whiskey on the counter. Listening to the wind growing stronger, Dean had the impression that a bit of liquor would do him good before going to bed. If he wanted the two bottles to last him the entire month, however, it would have to be done in moderation. And during harsh winter time, moderation was often difficult. Especially in the evening.

Turning too quickly, he winced, as he was suddenly struck with a sharp pain in his left thigh. Dean shut his eyes, waiting for it to pass. He breathed through it, as he always did, and proceeded to take care of the rest of the items in order to distract himself.

A pair of new blue flannel shirts.

A parchment roll and an ink bottle.

Rope. Soap. Two bottles of oil and a few boxes of matches, as usual, as well as some fruits and vegetables, whatever was available in the village and didn’t spoil fast.

No meat. Dean rarely bothered with meat. He was more than able to find game up in the mountain.

The bag now finally empty, Dean hung it by his jacket, and took the opportunity to fetch the letter and package in his pocket, having been looking forward to that part the most.

Before settling in to read Sam’s letter though, he put the kettle on for some breakfast, and quickly put away some of his weapons lying on the counter. He had begun cleaning them the night before, until sleep had got the better of him and he had decided to finish his task of putting back everything where it ought to be the next day.

So, swiftly, he hooked the rifle back above the pantry, where it typically spent the winter, replaced his hatchet by the door, next to the crossbow he had been carrying earlier, and his favourite knife in his jacket. The rest of the gear was split between the pantry and the cedar chest.

Except for one knife hidden beneath his pillow.

And the enigmatic and oddly shaped silver blade that was resting on the fireplace mantel. Where it had been since the first moment Dean had set foot into this cabin years ago. And if he was to believe the journals of his predecessors, the blade hadn’t moved an inch for a very, very long time.

Once his quick tidying-up was done, he looked out the window and noticed that snow was now falling, which gave him no hurry to carry on with his morning rounds. He would get to it, of course, but for now, since he still had to eat breakfast, Dean wanted to indulge in something good: reading Sam’s letter.

Dear Dean,

I hope that this letter finds you well. Thank you for the lengthy reply last time. It is always delightful to hear from you and it eases my mind to know how you are.

I’ll begin by explaining the package I’ve sent you. After you mentioned your fall in your last letter, I decided to finally inquire of my peers something to aid your comfort with your leg. Many had interesting takes on it, but after consideration, given your circumstances, your best bet is to mix an herb blend and oils in your bathwater, as well as to drink one cup of a particular blend of tea leaves, preferably before sleep. I took the liberty to send it all to you, and was assured by Mr. Davies that it should last you the month. I’ve included the instructions, and with hope that it will benefit you, I’m already putting together the package for next month. I can already picture you shaking your head in stubbornness and telling me that this was unnecessary, but I am stubborn too. I don’t see the point of you enduring discomfort when a simple remedy could help. So, please, if not for you, try it for me this month, and honestly let me know if it helped.

Secondly, concerning the main topic of your last letter, I’m happy to report that I found some information about the unknown sigils you discovered in the ruins. They are Enochian sigils. Which is curious considering they don’t match the other sigils or even the deity of the sacred ground in question. To the best of my translation skills, the first two mean “guardian” and “giant,” which, I’m sure you’ll agree, make sense. The last one is puzzling, however. It took me some time, but it is pronounced “Castiel” and since I couldn’t find it anywhere else, my best guess is that it’s a name. Whose? Your hypothesis is as good as mine. But given the association with the other sigils, it would be easy to suggest it’s the name of our very own legendary celestial being. Wouldn’t that be amazing? I’ll continue my research and let you know if I find anything else, but I’ll be honest, I was rather thorough. Not just about the sigils or the name, but the region’s history too, and I’ve never come across this before. I respected your wish to not share this information with anyone else, and will continue doing so until you tell me otherwise. But if you desire real answers, I fear we might have to re-examine this option down the road.

And finally, how are you? I’m having difficulty believing it’s been four years since we’ve seen one another. It’s been too long. And when I think that you haven’t seen Bobby, or even gone to the village altogether for nearly as long, it worries me. I sometimes regret having accepted coming here. I know it was years before your situation changed, and there isn’t much we can do about it now, but I cannot help but wonder if you’d do the same if I still resided in Tulpa. I know there are rules and I’m proud of you for keeping your word (which I knew you would). But I still worry about you and I wish I could do more.

I’m somewhat restricted on my end as well, as you know, but my situation at Kendricks might change in the near future. I’ve said this many times, I know. But it is true. And while I cannot promise anything at this moment, please remember that I’m working on it.

In the meantime, reconsider visiting the village when you can. It’s not ideal, but we both know many people would be thrilled to see you and I suspect it would do you wonders.

There isn’t much to report for me. Everyone is amicable enough, still, despite the definitive hint of competitiveness in the air. I’m working really hard and I hope to see you soon.

Be kind to yourself,

Sam

The rest of the day flew by, but Dean barely noticed. His mind had been elsewhere. Sam’s discoveries about the sigils turned out to be more fascinating than he had ever anticipated. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected Sam to unearth any new information. Not because he doubted his brother’s skills, but because a lot of information surrounding the Mountain had been thoroughly documented already.

But it appeared that he had been wrong in the most pleasant way and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

_Castiel._

Dean couldn’t remember coming across this name before. Written or otherwise. It was such an unusual name. He would have remembered if he had.

But he liked it. It had a nice ring to it.

He spent his day, as he checked the snares, chopped some wood, and prepared his rabbit stew, repeating the name to himself, hoping it might trigger some memory.

But nothing. Not from when he was growing up. Not from the council. Nor from any of the journals, which he had all read cover to cover, on multiple occasions.

He was certainly planning on studying them more meticulously now. And once the snow receded, he would also get another look at that sigil.

Over a month ago, Dean, in a moment of recklessness, had fancied a short exploration of the ruins. Given the steep slope, much rougher than the archway or other parts of the mountain he had previously explored, caution was recommended.

And in retrospect, a bright sunny day in winter, with fluffy snow, was perhaps not the best idea. His weak leg had given in for a second, and the next thing he knew, his other foot had slipped, resulting in him falling and slamming into one of the walls of stones. Thankful that he hadn’t tumbled down the mountain, once that mild terror had subsided, a new one emerged as he assessed the damage done to the sacred ground.

While the ancient wall was still standing, some loose stones had unfortunately fallen off, thus creating a minor gap. But after closer examination, wishing to fix the problem, Dean had been shocked to find sigils carved on newly exposed stones. Symbols he had never seen before, and that had seemingly been kept hidden.

As the evening was settling in, just like the rest of his day, Dean was lost in thoughts. He was carefully making his way up to the archway after supper, carrying with him some scraps of his meal—including a slice of apple pie—and a blue pot filled with twigs.

Even though the archway wasn’t very far, he nevertheless took a break because of his leg. The thinness of the air, which almost had an after taste, also slowed him down.

But as always, he eventually reached the archway, and standing still right in front of it, Dean took in the stunning view of the face of the Mountain as though it was his first time seeing it.

It undeniably looked like the profile of a peaceful, sleeping figure. Staring at it was a soothing experience and Dean had never been fully sure why that was.

Was it the mountain-sized figure that exuded a sense of strength and protection?

Or was it the figure’s soft facial features, despite its gigantic scale, that rendered it so mesmerizing?

Or a mixture of the two?

All Dean knew was that he would never tire of the view.

He poured the pot’s contents at the base of the archway and adequately placed the few twigs to facilitate a fire. Satisfied of the presentation, he then added the slice of pie and the scraps. He lit a match, made sure the flame caught the twig, and took a step back, shut his eyes and cleared his mind.

He listened, and through the blowing wind, and the branches brushing against one another, and the snow grazing the ground before being lifted into the air, he then heard it.

The deep hum that resonated all the way to his heart. The calming breath.

The pull.

And a brief imagery of piercing blue eyes. Just long enough for Dean to know what it was, but so briefly to always make him doubt he had seen it at all.

Instantly, the tension in his shoulders lessened. His heart felt lighter. Even his leg seemed to sting less.

Focusing on the bond, which kept him grounded, as though part of him was physically taking root in the soil, even with the thick layer of snow, Dean said a silent, yet meaningful, thank you.

And he opened his eyes and turned back, beaming.

Performing the ritual at the archway always helped ease his mind. And other than the joy of witnessing a beautiful sunset, particularly in that spot, it was also why Dean preferred doing so in the evening.

An exhausted mind was more susceptible to grim thoughts, and given the dark reality of his isolation, Dean had noticed that anxiety had increasingly shown its ugly head at bedtime.

But the ritual, honoring the bond by connecting to that presence, however strange it was—and it was rather odd—had been the best method to counter it.

It wasn’t a foolproof approach though.

Which was why, a few hours later, as Dean was cozily bundled up in his bed and sipping on his tea, one made of the tea leaves Sam had sent him, he could already feel the anxiety slowly creep back within him.

He wasn’t surprised. Loneliness was weighing on him more and more with each year, and the days when he was reminded of the outside world were the worst.

It was bittersweet. It was the confirmation that he wasn’t alone, as he so often felt, while emphasizing the fact that he could no longer be part of it.

Not like he used to, anyway.

He felt a lump in his throat, and then the wind wailed, as though it was responding to Dean’s thought.

Done with his tea, he put it down on the nightstand and fully dimmed the flame of the oil lamp. He fixed his pillows, and comfortably lying on his back, quite inexplicably, in an attempt to yield his thoughts to lighter things, he began singing a lullaby. The same one his mother used to sing when he was upset after waking from a nightmare.

As soon as Dean began singing, the wind grew calmer. And he felt the familiar pull in the middle of his chest.

Someone was listening.

Dean finished his song, grinning, with his eyes shut.

And unable to help himself, he finally said, out loud, “I had a feeling you’d like that one.”

The wind dissipated, and the deep breaths grew, resonating through him. It was comforting, and soon enough, feeling much better, Dean repositioned himself on his side. And focusing on the soothing breaths, letting himself slowly drift into sleep, he whispered, “Goodnight Castiel.”

At first, he mistook the sound for thunder, which was puzzling given the current season. The noise was so loud, it made his bed slide on the floor. Trinkets met the ground. The journals. Weapons. Pots. Even furniture.

That was when he realized it wasn’t the sky that was loud.

It was the earth.

And it was shaking.

Dean quickly climbed off the bed with the idea of sliding underneath it for safety measures. But he barely had time to stand up before being hit with a massive headache. His legs momentarily gave out and his knees hit the floor. It was so powerful, he nearly hurled.

And then it was over.

The ground wasn’t shaking anymore

Everything turned quiet.

He wasn’t feeling sick, either.

But he could feel something was different. A sort of frenzy was in the air.

He held his breath, listening, in the hope of discerning something. Whatever that had been, it could cause an avalanche.

He looked out the window as best he could, and once he was sure a massive snowslide wasn’t rushing towards him, he assessed the state of his cabin.

The general structure of the cabin seemed to have endured. None of the beams had cracked, nor had the roof caved in. Not even the windows had broken. It seemed that his biggest concern would be to properly re-shelve the pantry. Most of its contents were lying on the floor, as was nearly everything else.

But the fireplace was undisturbed and its screen was still in place. And grateful that his oil lamp hadn’t broken, he made a point of carefully placing it into a metal bucket, since some of its oil had spilled after hitting the floor.

And then it happened again. The ground was shaking. But it wasn’t like before. Still powerful, but more subtle, if it was possible to describe it as such.

And he was overwhelmed by another sensation. His head was still pounding.

And the pull was there. More than ever.

And it was calling out to him.

Something—someone—was speaking to him.

It was just too loud for him to understand.

But he knew exactly what was the source. Blue eyes flooded his mind.

At a staggering speed, he managed to get dressed. He grabbed the first clothing items he could, put on his boots and jacket, and ran out the door with a splitting headache.

Hastening up to the archway, his eyes were focused on the Mountain to his left.

And that was when he saw it. The horrifying spectacle of it all.

The face of the Mountain.

It was crumbling down. Piece by piece.

He lost his balance when another quake occurred. Or perhaps due to shock. He glanced up past the archway, once again fearing a snowslide coming his way, but nothing.

Whatever it was that was happening on the Mountain next to him, he was shielded from it.

Halfway to the archway and the face of the Mountain had completely disappeared.

He shut his eyes tight when he felt his usual leg pain for a second, and then continued upward. He wasn’t sure why. He knew it was gone. And yet, he carried on. Standing at the archway and taking in the full disaster was now a necessity.

But the archway held a surprise for Dean.

A man.

A naked man lay on his back at the base of the archway.

And as Dean was approaching, taking the last steps, the man’s profile was slowly coming into play, matching the face of the mountain.

Mesmerized, Dean kneeled next to him and just as he was about to reach for him, the man snapped his eyes open.

And they were blue.

Piercing.

Haunting.

Blue.

When Dean had been approached by the village’s council to become the next Hunter of the Mountain, it had been unexpected, to say the least.

If chosen properly, selecting a Hunter only needed to occur every few decades or so, which was why it was a very delicate process. Many elements had to be considered, and because it was impossible to predict when a new Hunter had to be chosen—namely, at the previous Hunter’s death—the council always kept a close eye on candidates.

Typically, the prospective Hunters had to meet a certain pedigree. In order to survive and document their stay at the cabin, they had to possess excellent hunting, reading and writing skills. Being dutiful was another crucial attribute to own, since the Hunter had to bear the Oath.

For the most part, Dean had fit their standards. He possessed the required skills, when many of the villagers didn’t. And though he hadn’t anticipated to stand out because of this, it appeared that the council had considered his time in the militia, which he had volunteered for as soon as he had been eligible, a trustworthy and exemplary recommendation.

That said, at not even thirty years of age when he had been tapped as the next Hunter, he did not, however, meet the age requirement. Hunters were favoured to be _seasoned_ citizens and Dean was relatively younger than their usual contender. The youngest one, in fact, as he would later know, and that detail had always puzzled him.

And then there had been the issue of his leg. Though not utterly problematic, his battle injury had warranted Dean permission to return home and retire from the militia all those years ago. It was therefore curious to him that the council hadn’t disqualified him for that very reason as well.

Dean had shared his confusion regarding these two points—particularly the aspect of his age—after the council had announced to him privately that he had been selected.

“It’s true that we tend to favour older individuals over younger ones,” said Barrett Bishop Jr., “because of the importance of the task in question. Building trust within the community takes time and younger individuals often lack the experience, or even opportunity, to prove themselves worthy of such a responsibility. Be that as it may, there is another reason why the younger generation are excluded from the selection.” Barrett paused, shifting on his seat. “Taking the Oath is a commitment for life. And it requires absolute focus. It changes you. The Mountain changes the Hunter. And despite what many might think, residing on the mountain—alone—is not just out of practicality. It is fundamental. Nurturing the connection is the best course of action for the Hunter. It’s what they must do. Which is why distractions are not recommended.”

Distractions.

Also known as _people_.

There was a long minute of silence, during which the council let Dean digest Barrett’s speech, until Mr. Styne took it upon himself to move the discussion forward.

“When we reviewed your record, we noted that there had been not one, but two potential matches in your past. One engagement before your service, which ended when you left, and another the year after your return. And like the first one, it didn’t come to pass.”

Unsure if he was waiting for a confirmation, or even an explanation, Dean said, “That’s true.” And he had to hold his tongue to not add anything else so as not to sound defensive.

Because he suspected at that moment why he, above others, had then been chosen.

“And nothing in the making as we understand?”

“No. Nothing.”

Once upon a time, Dean might have planned to embrace the family life, but that hadn’t been the case for many years.

The war had done more damage than a lousy leg.

“And just in case we have gravely overlooked something, have you ever fathered a child, or are you currently the sole relative to a child that requires your support?”

Dean shook his head. And shifted his stare to the side.

“It’s not a reproach, Dean,” said Barrett, evidently trying to soften his peer’s comments. “We simply have to be cautious in our choice. Accepting this role is a lot. But someone has to do it and it has to be done properly because the consequences of leaving the Mountain neglected or—”

A chill went down Dean’s spine at the thought.

And the room had turned quiet, with nervous exchange of looks.

“It’s why we need a Hunter,” someone finally said, breaking the silence.

“It’s tradition.”

“And an honor.”

Yes, an honor.

An honor that promised a solitary life.

And while nobody would ever dare state it as such, it hadn’t been without Dean’s notice that their criteria, however sensible they might be, were also unfair, if not judgemental in some ways.

And in that moment, Dean couldn’t help but feel that this _honor_ was also him being rebuked for having failed to meet certain expectations of society.

He knew that wasn’t the issue here. It wasn’t what the council was telling him.

But that was how he felt.

“We know it’s a lot,” repeated Barrett gently. “But we wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t think you couldn’t handle it. Dean, we truly believe you are the most apt for the job.”

Those had been comforting words at the time. They hadn’t been the convincing argument that had won Dean over to the idea, but Barrett’s last point had been key in his final decision. And it was something that Dean had often reminded himself of in the following years whenever he doubted himself.

Unfortunately, those words struck him in a very different manner on the fateful night the Mountain had crumbled.

Swiftly covering the stranger with his own jacket, fearing he might freeze to death, Dean grew anxious after the man fell unconscious. Unable to get a response out of him, Dean then opted for the only sensible choice: he hastily carried him to his cabin.

The journey home, though a short one, was executed with difficulty. And not too gracefully on Dean’s part. But with perseverance, as he continually mumbled reassuring words to the man, Dean nevertheless reached his cabin.

He rushed inside and carefully settled his still-unconscious companion on the floor, next to the bright fire.

Thankfully, while still unresponsive despite Dean’s attempts to wake him, the man was clearly breathing.

Worried sick, Dean croaked, “Hold on, okay? Hold on,” and fetched some warm clothes and blankets with haste. Moments later, after putting some water on to boil, he frantically got rid of the jacket to more properly examine the man’s condition.

And to facilitate his task of dressing him, of course.

Something strange came to Dean’s notice rather quickly, however.

The man’s skin was cool, but not to the extent he had feared. In fact, his body warmth wasn’t much different than his own.

He wasn’t shivering. Nor did he seem to be fighting for his life.

He almost looked restful.

He didn’t have frostbite.

Or even a scratch on him.

Only an odd tattoo on his lower abdomen.

Enochian. Dean was sure of it.

He rested one hand on his chest and felt it rise under his touch.

Deep breaths.

And a strong heartbeat.

And then Dean felt the pull in his heart.

He swallowed. Suddenly aware that he was staring, he cleared his throat and began dressing the man. Once pants, shirt and socks were on, he slid thick blankets underneath him, so he wouldn’t be lying on the cold, rough floor, and for good measure, added another one over him.

Dean poured the man a cup of warm water with a spoonful of honey, which he set next to him. He then gently lifted the man’s upper body, and after a bit of repositioning and shuffling through blankets to make it more comfortable for the both of them, the stranger’s head was now resting on Dean’s lap, with Dean hovering over him.

Dean made sure the water wasn’t too hot before bringing the cup to the man’s lips. It took a moment, but sure enough, he noticed his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. And while his eyes remained shut, his fingers began to stir. Dean gave him more water. He took his time, and when the cup was nearly empty, he paused, hoping to see him react.

But nothing. Not even a stir.

“Hey, Cast—can you hear me? Can you open your eyes? I need to know you’re all right.”

One hand twitched. Then his head. He let out a faint moan. It was as though he was desperately trying to wake from a nightmare.

“It’s okay,” Dean whispered to him, as he put down the cup. He pulled the blanket to the man’s chin, and in the hope of calming him, he rested one hand on his chest and the other on his damp hair, which Dean fought the urge to fondle. And in his kindest tone, he added, “Just rest for now. You’re safe.”

And the man slowly stopped moving, and returned to breathing deeply.

Trying to remain as still as he could in order not to disturb the man, Dean watched him with attention. Just as well because he couldn’t take his eyes off of him.

Studying his perfect face kissed by the light of the flames. The same peaceful face he had admired for so many years.

It was him. There was no denying it. He was staring at the face of the Mountain. Not quite the same way, perhaps, but it was him.

Which was as insane as it was problematic.

It wasn’t that Dean had forgotten how the man had landed on his lap, but worrying about his well-being had skyrocketed to the top of his priorities the moment he had set eyes on him. It hadn’t allowed him much time to reflect on the rest of the night’s events. But now that _this_ crisis had somewhat diminished, and the man didn’t seem on the brink of death anymore, other worries began plaguing his mind.

The Mountain was gone.

Over a century of Hunters dutifully honoring the ritual and tending to the Mountain, and now, on Dean’s watch, it had inexplicably crumbled down.

He had failed. Despite following the rules, despite doing exactly as the previous Hunters had done, and despite taking the task seriously, Dean had failed as a Hunter.

And while not all was, perhaps, lost, given whom he was staring at, in that very moment, he also was fully aware that this shouldn’t have happened and that he was responsible for this disaster.

Dean imagined the agitation spreading in the village. The terror. The indignation. The anger.

The dread of facing everyone’s disappointment rendered him breathless.

What could he possibly tell them?

What had even happened?

How could he fix it?

How could anyone trust him ever again after this?

How could anyone possibly think he could have succeeded?

“This took a turn. I think a better question is: why are you always so harsh on yourself, Dean?”

Startled, Dean looked down and found the man staring back at him.

“Hey! You’re—are you all right?”

His cheeks were pink now, and based on his piercing look, he was definitely alert.

Dean straightened up his back, thrilled to find him in better form. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better. Thank you.”

A few awkward minutes passed, during which both of them remained silent, as though they were waiting for the other to elaborate, until the man began hoisting himself up onto his elbow.

Following his lead, Dean helped him back onto his feet slowly, keeping a strong enough grip on him, worried he might collapse. But it turned out to be unnecessary. Before he knew it, the man was vertical and stretching his arms and legs, as though he had just woken up from a long nap.

He took notice of his attire. Sliding one hand on the soft fabric of his shirt, he smiled at the sensation. He then turned his attention to Dean, who had simply remained on his spot, unable to do anything else but stare at him. Again.

The man tilted his head slightly to the left and said, “You seem frightened.”

“Just confused,” he lied.

The man took a step forward. “About what?”

“Um, a few things. Like—I—” Dean held his breath, feeling his mind racing to find the right words. He didn’t want to ask silly questions. But he also was in dire need of clarification on many things, too. So, he began with the obvious one. “Like who—are you—are you who I think you are?”

Somewhat of an ambiguous delivery, but something told Dean it would suffice. And even though it came to the same, he had judged it had been better than simply asking “Who are you?” For some reason, Dean had feared it might be more _insulting_ than silly.

There was a pregnant pause. The stranger held his stare with a deadpan expression which made it impossible for Dean to read him properly.

Finally, after taking another step, he told Dean in a clear even tone, “I’m the one who’s been with you since you arrived here. The one to whom you’ve pledged an Oath. Who’s been listening to your prayers. Heard you sing and, hopefully, eased your mind when you needed it. Turned your nightmares into sweet dreams.” He smiled at him. A genuine smile filled with gratitude. “I am Castiel.”

Dean swallowed, feeling his heartbeat increasing. It wasn’t like he had expected another answer. And yet, making it official and hearing it out loud, hit him hard. It brought another set of realities to deal with.

Such as the fact that the man, Castiel, was _not_ a man.

He was the face of the Mountain. The guardian. The celestial being.

 _The god._

The ancient being who had been worshipped and possessed powers Dean could never think to grasp. And he was casually standing in front of him.

And Dean knew that this wasn’t supposed to happen.

“I’m sorry,” he cried out. “I’m—I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did—I’m sorry.”

Squinting at him, Castiel said softly, “Why are you apologizing? You did nothing wrong, Dean.”

“But—you’re here. _Physically here!_ I—I didn’t even know that was possible. How? And the Mountain! It’s gone and I—I don’t understand—I—I know I must have messed up somewhere and—”

Dean’s rambling came to halt when Castiel lifted a hand, signalling for him to slow down and take a breath.

“First, don’t worry about the state of the Mountain.”

“But—”

“Second, what happened was my doing, not yours. I’m here because I choose to be here.”

“What?”

“And third, I’m not here to punish you, Dean,” he said softly. “Quite the opposite.”

Dean swallowed.

“Then why? Why are you here?”

“For your company, of course.”

“What?” Dean let out a nervous laugh. “What do you mean? Like you—you want to…hang out?”

Pondering on his answer, Castiel stepped away from Dean and began observing their surroundings.

“Since you took the Oath, your presence has been very… striking. You are much more nurturing than I thought you’d be.” His eyes fell on the shelf, where most of the journals had fallen off. “And I thought that, after all this time, a chat wouldn’t be the worse idea.”

“A chat?” asked Dean, increasingly worried.

Castiel froze when he caught sight of the silver blade. He stared at it for a moment, and refocused his attention onto Dean.

“You and I already communicate on a daily basis. But I sensed that… I thought using actual words might be helpful. For now.” He opened his mouth as though he was planning on elaborating, but changed his mind, and turned silent instead.

As Dean was processing the information, his mind felt heavier than ever. None of this made any sense.

“What’s the matter? Something is still bothering you. What is it?”

He almost sounded caring, which only added to Dean’s mild distress.

“I’m just—is this normal?” he asked, and immediately added, “I mean, you being here… have you done this before? With the other Hunters, I mean? Because I’ve never heard of this.”

“No,” he said nonchalantly. “You’re actually the first.”

“I am?” And after a short hesitation, during which he had held his breath, he said, “Why? Why now?”

“I told you, I fancied a talk.”

He moved past Dean, approaching the stack of journals on the floor, and picked one at random.

Dean wouldn’t have called him a liar. He sensed that he was telling the truth.

Just not the _whole_ truth.

“Castiel, I—can I call you Castiel?”

“It’s my name.” He lifted his eyes from the journal. “How did you know my name, by the way?”

Trying his best to not trip on his words, Dean explained quickly his discovery of the sigil and his letter to Sam.

And Castiel’s only response to Dean’s story was a warm smile. “What were you going to say before?” he then asked him, as he returned his attention to the journal.

“Oh, um, okay, I was just wondering…” he began, as he took a few steps, “I know you said not to worry about the Mou—the situation, but what about the village? This is—you said this is a first and, um, they’re going to have questions. They’ll notice and—"

Without looking at him, Castiel simply said, “You should really stop worrying about them.”

“But I have to. I’m the one they picked. I’m the Hunter.”

“You, exactly. Not them.” He shut the journal and put it on the shelf. “You are the one who is here, Dean. Not them.Therefore, their criticism, should there be any, isn’t anything you should pay attention to.”

“Okay, but, Castiel, they’ll still notice that a few things have changed. Like the fact that you are out and about. How the Mountain looks like right now is a big indicator and what will happen if you go to the village—”

“I have no intention of going to the village. That would be pointless.” And before Dean could ask why, he said, “And as for the Mountain, I told you to not worry. Nobody but you can see it and now you know why it might alter from time to time.”

“Alter?”

“You’re the only person you have to answer to, Dean.”

Dean almost laughed. “I don’t think that’s how the world works. And besides, respectfully, I think your presence kinda contradicts that.”

They were now facing one another.

“I mean you no harm or judgement. I hope you know this.”

Dean gave him a skeptical nod. “You’re just here to… talk.”

“Why is this so hard for you to believe?” And with a soft smile, he added, “Good things do happen, Dean.”

And Dean wanted very deeply to agree with him.

But couldn’t find it in himself to do so with the kind of absolute certainty Castiel was exuding.

When he woke up in his soft bed the next morning, Dean was convinced it had been a dream.

He remembered the overwhelming sensation he had felt when the quake had occurred. How strange the discussion had been.

But some details were hazy. Like, he didn’t remember how the conversation had ended. Or when he had returned to his bed. And looking around him, every item was in place, like the earthquake hadn’t taken place.

And of course, Dean was on his own. No sign of Castiel.

He jumped to his feet and ran to his window to look at the Mountain.

And sure enough, there it was. The face of the Mountain. Just as it always had been. Undisturbed and still intact.

Letting himself drop on his kitchen chair, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

On the one hand, knowing that he wouldn’t have to deal with the council was a massive dose of relief. Feeling like a failure in the eyes of the village was something Dean was desperate to avoid.

On the other hand, he had to admit that the idea of having a visitor, even for only a short period of time, and no matter how strange they might be, was immensely appealing.

It was evident that loneliness had managed to chew its way into his soul of late.

And this dream—this crazy, vivid and _nice_ dream—was the proof of that.

But that was all it had been: a dream.

Settled on that notion, he carried on with his day as he always did. Nothing was out of the ordinary, though he was increasingly aware of his surroundings. Almost as though he wanted to find a clue that things had, indeed, changed.

But the blankets were tucked away. Trinkets and journals where they belonged. Even the silver blade was on the mantle of the fireplace.

But then he noticed the lamp in the metal bucket.

And after a quick search, he realized that some clothing items were missing. Precisely the ones he had lent Castiel in his dream, which had included his brand-new shirt.

And there was no way he would have misplaced that item.

And while he still detected the presence, the distinct pull in his chest, he couldn’t help but feel like it was a tad fainter than usual.

Deducing that he was simply letting his imagination run wild, Dean shook his head, and with a steady step, grabbed his jacket, ready to begin his morning rounds.

His plans were immediately altered, however, when he realized upon opening his door that there had been a large snowfall.

The snow level nearly reached the door handle rendering him practically snowed in. It appeared that focusing his attention at the Mountain and not at the ground when he had frantically looked out the window earlier made him miss that small detail.

He had enough wood and food inside to last the day, a few even, so he resigned himself to simply having a quiet day inside. For pragmatic reasons though, he nonetheless made sure first to clear out the entrance and recreate a path leading to the archway, as he would still need to bring offerings in the evening.

The air was so crisp that his eyebrows, beard and even eyelashes had frozen by the time he had finished with his task.

But that made him doubly appreciate being bundled up by the fire, warming up his feet into a bucket of hot water, after he was done. He had even granted himself a small glass of whiskey, despite the early hour of the day.

And while his day turned out to be rather uneventful, as he spent it skimming through the old journals, Dean was surprised how quickly it flew by.

And by dinnertime, by which time he had long since switched to tea, he was slowly letting go of the strange dream of the night before.

However, that didn’t last for very long.

Stirring his mouth-watering vegetable soup, he felt a slight quiver under his feet. It was so subtle and so quick, not even the rocking chair had moved. Ignoring it, he set the table for himself, occasionally sipping on his tea, and when he poured himself a small bowl, making sure to leave some for the offerings, he heard knocking on his door.

Nearly dropping his bowl, Dean froze and listened. His heart pounding in his chest, he held his breath.

And he snapped out of it when it happened once more.

Shaking, he put down the bowl and hurried to his door.

And there he was.

Wearing the same blue shirt.

Harboring the same deadpan expression.

Staring back at him, in the flesh.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hi. You’re—you’re back.”

“I told you I would be.”

Dean nodded nervously, and stepped backwards, to let him in.

Advancing into the room, Castiel eyed the fireplace and asked, “May I?”

Unsure what he meant, Dean nodded, and with one swift hand move, the fire grew in size and turned blue.

Dean’s jaw dropped.

“That should help,” said Castiel. “I wasn’t able to do much yesterday. Coming here turned out to be trickier than I had initially planned and, as you saw yourself, I exerted myself quite a lot.” Giving him an apologetic look, he added, “When I put everything back right before leaving, I realized how I must have scared you. I tried to do better this time and judging by the state of your home, it seems like my approach was done more smoothly.”

“Wait, that—you did this? You cleaned up?”

“You don’t remember?” asked Castiel, looking at him curiously.

Biting on his lips, Dean began shaking his head, only to stop. “I remember most of it. I’m a bit hazy on some things though. I don’t remember when you left.”

“You were exhausted. It was obvious you still had many questions, but given how demanding the evening had been on both of us, I suggested we continue our discussion another time. I took care of the mess and, not long after, I left.”

Dean frowned. He had no memory of this whatsoever. “You left,” he repeated as a matter-of-fact. No matter how tired Dean had felt the night before, he had difficulty believing that he would have simply said “Goodnight” and fell peacefully asleep without insisting on further clarifications first.

And he certainly wouldn’t have forgotten about it the next day.

Instead of voicing this concern, however, he said, when something else occurred to him, “You left and returned to…how you were before? Because I saw it this morning. The—your, um, face. Just as it’s always been. Is that how it works?”

“More or less. And as I said, it’s only for a few times.” He added, after an enigmatic pause, “Until I deem it necessary.”

As he observed Castiel taking a seat at the table, Dean was torn.

Despite pondering at the strong possibility that he had lost his mind, Dean couldn’t deny the deep feeling of comfort spreading in his chest. The same peace of mind that he always felt whenever he would feel the hum resonate to his bones.

As he had admitted to himself on that same morning, the idea of being granted company, after years of isolation, nearly brought tears to his eyes.

But he knew something was amiss.

There were gaps in Castiel’s story. In the _celestial being_ ’s story.

And Dean’s job, above all, was to ensure that the Mountain remained the same.

Peaceful and undisturbed.

And Castiel sitting at his kitchen table was everything but that.

And Dean was not about to let that slide.


	2. Part Two: The Mammoth Warrior

As a precaution, a couple of days after the heavy snowfall, Dean had taken a mild detour during his morning rounds to check his snares, and had climbed down to the only spot on the mountain that offered a view of the village down below.

To the naked eye, the village had appeared as quiet as it always did. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And while it was impossible to tell with absolute certainty what was going on in the village this far away, Dean believed there would have been discernible signs from his vantage point if a serious situation had risen in the village.

And if that had been the case, and he was somehow connected to it, something told him that, by now, he would have been contacted about it.

So, he took Castiel’s advice and put his worry regarding the council’s reaction out of his mind for now.

Over the following week, Dean carried as he always did, with his chores, including bringing offerings at the archway, and Castiel continued visiting Dean on a few occasions. It was a tad awkward, though it was obvious to Dean that he was trying his best to make their exchanges as pleasant as possible.

Which Dean had to admit, was kind of him. He appreciated the thought. Even if he kept his goal in mind: to return to how things were.

But Castiel never stayed for very long. He simply inquired about Dean’s day and his well-being. Nothing more, nothing less.

So, as he had previously stated, his visits were quick chats.

Still suspicious of him, however, Dean wondered if the short duration of his visits was simply to avoid Dean’s questions.

But Dean was proven wrong on Castiel’s fourth visit, when Castiel skimmed Dean’s journal.

“Who taught you to have such beautiful penmanship?”

“My grandfather. He taught my brother and me. He was hoping we would be scholars, the both of us, but… I’m glad it worked out for Sam. He’s a hard worker and definitely belongs in the field of academics with a brain like his.”

“It seems to me that resourcefulness is a shared family trait, then,” he said kindly. “What about your parents? Are they scholars, too?”

Dean shook his head. “My father was a blacksmith and Mom manned the shop when she could.”

Castiel lifted his eyes from the journal. “Was?”

Shifting on his seat, Dean said, “They died a long time ago when I was a child.”

Castiel blinked at him. “I’m sorry to hear this. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay. And thank you.”

“May I ask how?”

“There was a fire in the village. Many homes were destroyed and seven other people died from it.”

Castiel gave him a short nod, as though he was remembering something. “I’m really glad you and your brother were spared. Were you raised by your grandfather, afterwards?”

“Yes. And thankfully, Sam and I were both of age by the time he passed away in his turn.”

For some reason, Dean felt incredibly relaxed in that moment, and considering the topic being discussed, that was highly unusual.

He despised the very mention of the fire and avoided it every chance he could, even with Sam.

And yet, here he was openly discussing it without a moment of hesitation.

Dean expected Castiel to question him further on the matter, but he did not. For the next few minutes, only the sound of pages being turned and the fire crackling could be heard, until Castiel finally put down the journal and turned his attention to the fireplace, where his blue flames were still burning.

Although he hadn’t told Dean of the particulars, since Castiel’s first visit, it was clear to Dean that the place had somehow been enhanced.

For instance, certain objects appeared brighter and shinier. Some of the rundown furniture was now in pristine condition.

But this change wasn’t solely visual, but in terms of the overall vibe of his home, too.

The food was tastier than ever before, despite using the same recipe and ingredients. And the food spoiled far slower than usual.

Smells were different as well. As soon as the sun would set, he would suddenly be overwhelmed by the sweet odor of cinnamon.

And Castiel’s blue fire seemed to create far more than just physical warmth. It wasn’t simply warming up Dean’s cold fingertips and toes. It chased away dark thoughts the moment Dean would find himself within its vicinity.

After he was evidently satisfied with the fire, Castiel took a step back from the fireplace, as though to have a better look at it, and paused when he took account of the silver blade on the mantle.

Instead of ignoring it, like he had done the first time, however, Castiel seized the blade and a faint smile crossed his face. He adjusted his hold and the next thing Dean knew, Castiel began twirling the blade.

Dean nearly gasped at the sight. The manoeuvres were executed to such perfection, he couldn’t look away. Dean had met his fair share of proficient soldiers during his time in the militia, but this was something else.

“Those are impressive skills, Castiel.”

“You’re too kind to say so. I’m afraid I’m a tad rusty.” And he put the blade down on the counter.

“Rusty? That was rusty for you? Wait—do you mean—that’s yours?”

“A long time ago, yes.” He shuffled through the pieces of parchment lying on the counter.

“Why—why would a god need a blade?”

“God?” Castiel turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“Guardian,” tried Dean. “Protector. Celestial being. I don’t know, there are many names for you.”

Castiel didn’t say anything, until his expression mildly changed. Like he had finally understood something. “You think I’m a god?”

Biting on his lips, Dean nodded shyly. “Aren’t you?”

“Of course, not.”

“What? You mean they—the story is wrong?”

“What story?”

Dean paused, realizing what he had said.

“What story, Dean?”

“Yours. The Legend of the Mountain.”

As far as Dean remembered, Henry, his grandfather, had even been the first one to tell Dean the Legend of the Mountain, which had later on been repeated by his father and various people of the village, among many other tales of the region. But the Legend of the Mountain, for a very obvious reason, was the most famous one in the village. Only his mother had preferred staying clear of that particular legend during bedtime. It was a known fact that the Campbell family had been amongst the first residents to have a family member honor the Oath. Moishe Campbell had been the second Hunter, and for some reason, his mother had always been bothered by that fact, whenever someone would mention it.

“And this tale suggests that I am a god?”

Dean nodded.

Given the amount of time he had felt Castiel’s presence resonate through his heart and soul, not to mention the powers Castiel had exhibited in front of him, it made it difficult for Dean to believe that Castiel was anything but a god.

But then he realized perhaps all this was due to _something else_.

And Dean was very curious to know what _this_ was.

“Would you be inclined to tell me about it?” asked Castiel.

Thinking quickly, Dean answered, “I will. Can you tell me the real story after though?” And at Castiel’s silence, he added a soft, meaningful, “Please?”

To which Castiel granted him a nod.

“Okay, well, the story goes that long ago,” started Dean as he repositioned himself on his seat, “the kingdom was plagued with dark creatures that were slowly taking over the world. Despite their best efforts, including their most powerful magics, mankind was no match against these monsters. Just as everything seemed lost, one of the gods,” he said, looking shyly at Castiel, “who believed that mankind deserved protection, offered to help them. A deal was struck that he would rid the world of those creatures by swallowing them whole in exchange for mankind’s devotion. And when their protector had done what he had promised, he sought a place to rest amongst them, should they need his help again. And since then, mankind continued building the connection with their savior, determined to not break their promise, and in the hope of never suffering his retaliation because they had witnessed his incredible strength. And they have kept their word so well, that the god was able to sleep ever since, rendering him into a magnificent mountain.”

When he finished his tale, Dean held his breath as he waited for Castiel’s comment.

The legend had been told to him time and time again throughout his life. And while he had never believed it to be an accurate historical account, Dean had nevertheless accepted the core of the story as the truth.

Being the Hunter had definitely solidified that notion, in any case.

But now, with Castiel suggesting otherwise, he almost felt foolish for having done so.

“So, um, how close is it?”

Castiel shifted his eyes to his left, reflecting on it, and said, “I can see the resemblance between the two. But it’s not what happened.”

Eager to know more, Dean shifted on his seat.

“And how—how did it happen? _What_ happened?”

“It begins much like your tale. Centuries ago, creatures of darkness, which had long been forgotten, resurfaced and spread across the land, claiming it as their own. The army of King Michael, known as the Host of Heaven, waged war against these forces, and though powerful, the army was ultimately consumed by this evil.”

“Wait—what? Hold on. You mean, the Host, like the army of legendary soldiers who won every battle, was real?”

“Evidently, we didn’t _win_ every battle,” he said, amused. “But yes, the army existed.”

Staring at him bluntly, Dean whispered, “We? You—you were one of them?”

“I told you. I am not a god.”

Dean frowned. He wanted to ask more questions, but bit his lip to let Castiel finish.

“After losing his army,” Castiel continued, “the King sought to have it returned to him more powerful than ever by making a deal with the only ancient being whose power rivaled the creatures of darkness. The entity was referred to as the Shadow.”

Dean had never heard of it.

“But the Shadow, uncaring for humanity, refused to help the King. It found mankind undeserving and greedy. It wanted to be left out of these trivial matters, and believed that aiding the King would only result in mankind’s eternal nagging. But the King promised that he would never ask the Shadow for more help, and also made the convincing argument that these forces had proven to be greedier than mankind, and that once they were done with humanity, the Shadow would most likely be next. Reluctantly, the Shadow agreed to help him, on one condition: instead of returning his army to him, which had already failed against the creatures, he would give him back only one of his soldiers. A sole warrior, with the strength of an entire army, and newly gifted of a dose of ancient powers to counter his foes. And this is how I came to be. I was reborn to follow the King’s command, and I did so perfectly that the King grew arrogant. He knew that as long as I existed, no one would dare attack the land. Therefore, on the King’s order, the mages amplified my power with each destruction I undertook. The more creatures I fought, the stronger I became, and the more I changed. Emotionally and physically. Until the Shadow had had enough. Unable to act against me or the King directly, he spit back creatures so vile and ancient that even I would struggle against them. The kingdom was ravaged and the King distraught. So I did the only thing I could. I swallowed them all and turned into something else entirely. Bigger than life, with next to no detectable sign of humanity left within me. And fearing that he couldn’t control me anymore, and desperate to ensure these creatures would never resurface, the King ordered his mages to hunt me down. Too powerful to kill, they managed to put me to sleep, and the practice used was perfected into a ritual, a blood oath, which they taught their children. And with each passing generation, as the descendants of those mages sharpened their skillsets, evolving with the world, the responsibility continued to be carried by one of their own, fearful of the consequences.”

Dean was at a loss for words.

Whatever he had expected, this hadn’t been it. As he was mulling it over, he agreed with Castiel that the stories shared some similarities. But the ways in which they differed were far more relevant. Troubling, if not even sickening.

And staring back at him, Dean couldn’t believe how unperturbed Castiel was.

“Dean?”

“Sorry.” Snapping out of it, he shifted on his seat. “That was…I’m just processing. That was a lot of new information.”

“I’m sensing you have questions,” he said in a playful tone.

“Um, a few, yes.” He took a deep breath. “So, you’re not a god. You’re human.”

“ _Was_ human,” Castiel corrected him. “I don’t know what I am, but I am certainly not a man, nor a god.”

“And the Oath…the ritual…all this, it’s not worship. The bond is not to help you. The whole thing is just to—to keep you under?”

“More or less.”

Dean squinted.

“Okay…okay, but—if that’s the case, how can you be sitting at my kitchen table right now? Does that mean you’re free? How are you like this,” he said, gesturing to him, “and not as gigantic as—and _why_ are you spending your time with me? Cas, if—if what you say is true, then I’m…I’m just your glorified guard,” he said in disgust. “Why don’t you hate me or—why are you still here? Why—I don’t understand.”

“Did you just call me ‘Cas?’”

Dean shut his mouth, feeling he couldn’t be trusted to utter another word.

After a short hesitation, Castiel began to say, “The first thing you must understand, Dean, is that I don’t hold any grudge against you. Or any of the Hunters. Not even the village, or the mages who cast the spell. I told you, what I had—have—become is too complex to simply call it ‘powerful.’ It’s destruction that was emphasized using dark forces. It has no business existing.”

“See, this is the part where I’m lost because you’re obviously not that,” argued Dean. “You know this, right? I know you said it changed you, and I can see how, but that—that’s not what I feel from you. At all.”

“Then the initial spell and the Oath did what they were supposed to do. With time and effort, they tamed me. That’s their main purpose. The very purpose of the Hunters.”

“Yeah, about that,” said Dean, running one hand over his face, feeling overwhelmed, “that’s actually mind-blowing to me. Hunters are mages’ descendants? I never knew about that lineage. How did anyone miss—”

And he stopped talking. His stomach dropped. His mind was racing.

“Fuck.”

They knew.

The council knew this.

Remembering Moishe Campbell, his own mother had known this.

_“Dean, we truly believe you are the most apt for the job.”_

“That’s why my age didn’t matter or—that’s why they picked me. It’s my bloodline that matters.” He let himself fall on the back of his seat. “It had nothing to do with my skills or my so-called accomplishments or—that’s why.”

For the first time since he met him, Castiel suddenly appeared angry. “And as always, you’re selling yourself short, Dean. Your lineage is only one aspect—an aspect that many people from the village share—that qualified you. Your skills and other values were just as valid. I’m evidently kept out of the loop, but I can assure you, having forged a bond with every Hunter, the council, as you call them, takes the selection extremely seriously. Also,” he said, in a kinder voice, “I told you when we met. I shouldn’t play favouritism, but you are different. And that certainly counts for something to me.”

Many thoughts came to Dean’s mind following Castiel’s speech. Some surprising in nature to Dean, but he hastily refocused his mind on the very first question he had had since meeting Castiel.

“Cas, is—is this why you’re here? Why you wanted to talk? Because you wanted to tell me the real story so I—if I stop the ritual or break the Oath…what will happen?”

Castiel lowered his eyes for a moment. “That’s not why I’m here, Dean. Breaking the Oath won’t accomplish anything except severing our bond and I don’t want that. Because of so many things, I feel tethered to this mountain. The same way you are because of our bond. This is why Hunters slowly disconnect with the outside world. I’m the reason. I change the Hunters as I once did all those centuries ago. So, before you get any ideas, do not feel guilty. And instead of seeing yourself as my guard, think of it as simply being my companion. That’s much closer to the truth of how I feel about you and the Hunters’ purposes than anything else.”

Dean wasn’t sure he agreed with that last statement, but the heaviness of the conversation had drained him of any energy to pursue it, and he simply nodded. Sensing his exhaustion, Castiel announced that he should let Dean have some space and end his visit for the day.

But Dean politely requested that Castiel stay.

“If you want,” he added. “I was about to make dinner. We can continue to talk. About anything.”

And Castiel accepted gladly.

Just before he was about to check his pantry, however, Dean, leaning on the counter, said, “Thank you for telling me your story. I—I really liked it. I liked hearing about you. I liked the way you told your story. It still sounded like a fairy tale. A better one than the actual fairy tale.”

“You think so?” asked Castiel, smiling at him. “I must admit it is lacking my favourite theme.”

“And what’s that?”

“Like things I didn’t get the chance to experience before.”

Dean kept very still. He listened, feeling his heart practically pound in his chest.

“Like belonging. Not out of sense of duty, but rather attachment. Like—”

Castiel didn’t finish his sentence. Almost as though he had realized what he was saying and abandoned the idea all together.

But he gave Dean a tender look.

“What about you?”

“My—my favourite kind of fairy tale?”

“Did your parents recite many of them to you as a child?”

They had and so had his grandfather. Henry had had quite a knack for storytelling, Dean had thought. Especially about one type of story.

Focusing on Castiel’s eyes, and letting himself be engulfed with warmth and a sense of peace, as he noticed his eyes often had this effect on him, he said earnestly, “I liked the ones about warriors. _Saviors_ , to be more exact. Not necessarily because of the sense of duty, or praise the heroes got. It was about saving people. The compassion attached to it. I always appreciated and admired people like that. That’s—that’s why I always liked _your_ story. The legend, I mean. The kind god who saved humanity.”

And Dean held his stare as long as he dared, until he finally turned to the pantry, feeling the blood rushing to his cheeks.

Later, on that same night, after Castiel had left, Dean was helplessly staring at his ceiling, reliving the entire day.

He was angry.

He couldn’t decide which was worse: how unfairly Castiel had been treated, or the fact that Dean had been part of the process.

And for what? On the off chance that he _might_ be dangerous? And he had had no say in the matter?

Dean felt sick. Being treated like a second-rate citizen by his neighbors had been one thing. But the idea of being exploited in that fashion for _centuries_ was infuriating to him.

He was infuriated on Castiel’s behalf and horrified at his role in it.

As he turned on his side, sighing deeply, for the umptieth time that night, Dean promised himself to do something about it. According to Castiel, breaking the Oath was not the solution, and he seemed to imply that nothing was to be done.

But Dean hoped he was wrong. And in any case, he would do everything in his power to make it better for Castiel.

If it was a companion he needed, then that’s what he would get.

And perhaps, it would convince Castiel to make his visits last longer.

If not permanent.

Dean followed through with his new attitude on the very next day. He brought offerings at the archway first thing in the morning, which was slightly unusual for him, but did so nonetheless. Before returning home, he placed a bucket upside down not far from the archway, and on top of it, he put a carefully folded coat Dean had as a spare for him to use.

He didn’t know if Castiel truly needed one, but Dean had pondered on the matter too many times already, so he decided to act on it.

It turned out to be a meaningful act. Castiel had warmly thanked him during his visit later on that same day, and commented many times on how he loved the beige coat.

And soon after, Castiel visited Dean nearly every day, at any hour, and for any purpose. Sometimes it was to say a brief hello. Sometimes he would spend the entire day with Dean. Even helping him with some of his chores.

Dean had found the idea of Castiel doing labour preposterous at first. But once he saw him having a good old time at chopping vegetables or gathering wood for the fire, happy to contribute, Dean deduced that his protector could do whatever he wished to.

Castiel also began accompanying Dean during his hunts, and though it became clear to Dean that Castiel didn’t possess many hunting skills, he was, however, attentive and a quick learner. Watching the celestial being setting up a snare with care and enthusiasm made Dean grin each time, particularly since he knew that, given Castiel’s abilities, he most likely would be able to accomplish the task much faster than this.

And yet, Castiel persisted with the method Dean had taught him.

Another thing Dean began to appreciate during Castiel’s visits was to witness him undertake his training sessions. Be it on a cold bitter morning outside, while Dean was gone hunting, or in the evening, in the living area, after pushing back some of the furniture, Castiel had taken up the habit of performing his old training routines.

Dean was fascinated by the spectacle of it and never missed a chance to tell Castiel how impressive it was.

Until one evening, Castiel said, “You know, it’s not as difficult as it looks. I’ll teach you.”

Dean was really glad he was seated in that moment, because he was sure his legs would have given in.

“It’s not necessary,” he told him. “I’m—it’s fine. I don’t think I should.”

Approaching the table, Castiel gave him a suspicious look. “If it’s simply because it doesn’t interest you, then I will leave the matter to rest. But if it’s only because you doubt yourself, I’d like you to try, please.”

Knowing there was no way of getting out of this one, since it was clear Castiel saw right through him, Dean nodded and joined Castiel’s side.

Imitating him, he took off his boots and did a few stretches to warm up his body, following Castiel’s lead. His left leg slightly stung, but not as much as he had feared.

He then watched Castiel with attention, as he showed him a few quick moves, only for him to leave to the floor for Dean to have a go.

“Um, can I see it again?” The steps had seemed intimidating to him.

Castiel repeated the movements effortlessly.

Still doubting himself, Dean said, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. I’m not that flexible. And my leg…”

With a kind smile, Castiel told him, “I promise I’ll go easy on you and if you’re really not comfortable, you can stop any time.”

Dean was tempted to insist, but he figured that the least he could do was try.

So, he did.

Castiel showed him the sequence once more, slower this time, with Dean mimicking step by step, as best he could. At first, this method seemed to prove itself beneficial. While Dean certainly wasn’t executing them as quickly, nor as gracefully as Castiel, he was getting the hang of it. Halfway through the sequence, however, when Dean struggled with the position of his arms, he suddenly felt Castiel’s touch.

“Hold it for a second.”

Dean immediately stopped moving and held his position.

After studying him, Castiel took a step closer, delicately nudged Dean’s elbow into the appropriate position and, keeping hold of his arm with one hand, he eased Dean’s head slightly upwards, with one finger on his chin.

“A little higher. Higher. There.”

Castiel examined his position once more—still touching him—and then, after moving to his left, closer still, Dean felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Open your shoulder like this.”

Dean let his hand guide him.

“There.”

With his heartbeat racing, Dean was struggling to hold the position.

Especially under Castiel’s intense stare.

And with him this close to him.

“Excellent, Dean. I knew you could do it.”

And he let go of him.

And it took about everything Dean had to not reach out to him.

But he didn’t. He remained on his spot.

Desperately trying to ignore that desire.

And it was difficult. In fact, as the days passed, keeping his distances was becoming a problem. And so was saying goodbye to Castiel every night. He had even been tempted many times to casually ask him to stay for the night.

But he hadn’t dared voice it. He had certainly wished for it. Some could even call it _ached_ for it.

But he didn’t say it. And watching Castiel leave every night became particularly tougher when Dean remembered that there was a strong possibility—even certainty—Castiel would say his last goodbye in the near future.

And the thought was heartbreaking to Dean.

He didn’t want Castiel to leave. He didn’t want things to return to the way they were.

And righting a wrong was not the only reason why he felt that way.

With each passing day in his company.

Every meal shared.

Stare exchanged.

Smile given.

It wasn’t just that Dean felt that he owed him. Or that he didn’t want to return to his secluded world.

It was that he would genuinely miss him. Everything about him.

Even if he felt like he had barely scratched the surface of who he was.

And whom he could become to _him_.

Sorting out these emotions within him had been tiring. Usually, writing in his journal helped. These days, however, his journal entries weren’t about the events of the day or deep contemplations about being a Hunter.

His journal was now a research log, where he noted every hint he could find from the other journals, from random memories about the legend, or pieces of information Castiel had told him about his life, in the hope he could find some kind of loophole to free Castiel from this situation.

But so far, no luck.

He had another option in mind, however. Though, once again, it would be complicated.

Dean had tried his best to write Sam an honest letter, but he always ended up staring at a blank parchment.

Given how informative Sam’s last letter had turned out to be, Dean believed that updating Sam on the last few weeks’ development was perhaps his best bet for them to ever find a solution to Castiel’s problem.

That being said, divulging any detail regarding Castiel in a letter would be reckless for two reasons. For one, Dean was convinced he would sound like a mad man. And two, even on the off chance that Sam would believe him, Dean, quite surprisingly, didn’t want Castiel’s secret to be exposed.

What he wanted was to free him, or at the very least, support him. And Dean feared that if he revealed Castiel’s true story, his power, and his ability to manifest himself in the flesh, the wrong people would seek to exploit him again.

Dean might never be able to unchain him from this mountain, but one thing was for sure, he would do everything in his power so that Castiel would never be used for someone else’s personal gain. He deserved better than that after centuries of semi-catatonic imprisonment.

But soon enough, to Dean’s disbelief, a full month had nearly passed since Castiel’s first appearance, which meant that it was time for him to get his provisions and settle once and for all on what to write to Sam.

After a lot of consideration, wishing to be direct as possible, Dean made his letter short and focused on only three points. The first one was about the sigil, thanking Sam for his valuable input and that it had an interesting “effect” in his day-to-day life. The second was to know, out of curiosity, if he had ever found anything unusual regarding the Mountain before. And third, Dean mentioned how conflicted he felt in light of recent events, without precising which ones.

He knew that approaching the issue like this would only slow down the process, but Dean preferred using caution above all. And even if Sam was privy to everything Dean knew in this very instant, he doubted very much the answers, if there were some, would be found on the spot.

Patience was key. And if nothing came of it, Dean at least knew he had tried, while keeping Castiel safe from scrutiny.

On the morning when he had to greet his monthly provider, Dean lingered home as long as he could. He had hoped to spare a few words with Castiel before leaving, but since there had been no sign of him by dawn, Dean accepted that it would have to wait until his return, and set off down the mountain.

Jo Harvelle was already waiting for him on a blond mare, by the time Dean had made his way to the exact spot Garth had been the month before. They greeted each other with a hug, and after a short exchange of bags, lists, and letters, Dean inquired about the village.

Typically, he asked this question out of politeness and genuine concern for his friends and neighbors whom he wasn’t in a position to see anymore.

And while this was still the case on that particular morning, it hadn’t been his _main_ concern this time.

He wanted to know if they had felt the quake. If they had noticed a drastic difference in the air as he had. If they knew what he had been up to.

But Jo’s response was the same he received every month. There was no mention of earthquakes or even the Mountain. No insinuation about him potentially butchering his job.

Just as Dean felt relieved, however, she said, “Nothing changed. Except you.”

“Me? Like how?” Dean had kept his tone as neutral as he could have mastered.

“I don’t know. You seem… weird.”

Dean frowned.

“Sorry, that sounded mean. I didn’t—I know it’s been a while, so maybe that’s why, but—”

“But?”

“But you seem a little off. Just—Dean, remember, you can come to the village. It’s not—”

“Forbidden? No, just frowned upon.”

Jo lifted an eyebrow. “And that would stop you?”

And Dean had to let out a short laugh at that one. “No. You’re right. It wouldn’t.”

“Look, I’m not going to pretend like I know the whole ordeal,” she said in a softer voice. “Just—just take care of yourself, okay? Whatever it is. Sleeping all day. Taking fresh air. Coming to the village or screaming at the moon, I don’t know, just do what you got to do. Because right now, as someone who’s known you your whole life, you don’t seem fine. You look like something’s eating at you.”

Dean averted his eyes.

“And maybe I’m wrong,” she continued. “We just want you to be okay and for you to know we’re here.”

“I know you are. And I’m okay. I will be.”

Shortly after, Jo waved at him, told him everyone was thinking of him, and returned to where she had come from.

And although there was a part of him that was sad to see his friend leave, he hadn’t felt like he usually felt every other time before.

The massive dose of loneliness wasn’t punching him in the gut. His heart and mind didn’t feel heavy with doubt and worry.

Maybe Jo had been right after all. Maybe he was different, simply for the better instead of worse.

And if that was the case, the cause of this change wasn’t exactly mysterious.

This new perspective made Dean consider bringing up a certain subject of conversation to Castiel. One he had been meaning to broach for a very long time.

He wanted to be honest with him. About how he felt about him.

And his desire for him to remain with him indefinitely.

He knew it might be awkward. He knew it would be difficult. But he would do it.

That was his intention anyway.

But something else happened that made him pause on that idea.

On his way back, he found Castiel face down in snow, right beside the chopping block.

Unmoving.


	3. Part Three: The Oath

“Dean, I’m fine.”

“Well, you might be—now—but obviously that wasn’t the case ten minutes ago. Stop! Rest for a second, while you tell me what happened.”

Castiel had tried to climb off Dean’s bed once he had regained consciousness and Dean wanted none of it.

“There’s nothing to it. I’m fine,” he said stubbornly.

Glaring at him, Dean, with his arms crossed over his chest, did not agree with his statement. He took a step closer.

“You were still passed out when I dragged you in here. You’re not fine. Something happened. What was it?”

“I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to worry you.” Despite Dean’s protests, Castiel managed to climb off the bed this time, but he nearly hit the ground after taking two steps.

Dean took hold of him just in time, and with his help, Castiel remained vertical, while leaning on the armchair for a second.

Studying him as he stayed by his side, Dean could clearly attest that Castiel was not well. His posture was different. Standing still was evidently demanding focus on his part, his right arm was twitching, and he briefly shut his eyes a few times, as though he was enduring deep pain.

“Cas, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

With a sad smile, he told him, “I was really hoping I’d have more time.”

“What? What do—do you mean?”

Castiel gave him a desolate expression. He took a deep breath, and rested one hand on Dean’s arm, facing him perfectly.

“I fear this must be my last visit.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, Cas. Please, just—why? What’s wrong? Why—please don’t go.”

“Dean,” he said softly. “I wish I could stay, I thought—” he shut his eyes once more, letting out a short groan, as he clutched at his stomach, “I thought I could.”

“ _Could_? But Cas—” And then, with a sudden realization, he stared at him with horror. “You—you coming here…when you implied your visit would be temporary, I thought it was because that’s what you wanted. But it’s not, isn’t it? You don’t leave every day because you want to. It’s because you _have_ to. You being here—you were never supposed to do this. And it’s hurting you, isn’t it?

“Dean, listen, I—you need to know—”

“Why? Why did you do this?”

“For you, of course.” Castiel immediately smiled at him. “I wanted to help you.”

“What?”

“You were so sad. So lonely and miserable.” He eased his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it. “You were so down on yourself, Dean. This constant battle within you of thinking that being here was a punishment you deserved. I couldn’t bear it. I like to think I had eased your pain all these years before, but I—I so wanted to do more. Much more. I thought company in the way you’re accustomed to would help. I wanted you to know you weren’t alone.”

This made it worse. So much worse. On every account.

“Dammit, Cas. I’m the one who ought to look out for you, not the other way around. You—you shouldn’t have done it.”

“Do you know why I think I was able to come in the first place?”

Dean shook his head.

“I think my bond with the Hunters goes both ways. I changed the Hunter, like the Hunter changed me. And I believe that was the intention of the mages with the Oath. I don’t know the exact process they undertook to discover this, but I think, once they had cast the initial spell to put me to sleep, they realized that my humanity was still present. There wasn’t much left after everything I had gone through, and it was buried deeply. But there was enough for them to tap into it. The Oath, my connection to the Hunters, to human nature, it made my own human side heal slowly and kept it on the surface. It kept me peaceful.”

He paused, catching his breath. While he had spoken clearly and without haste, Castiel had struggled a few times during his speech, and his voice had become particularly rasped by the end of his last sentence.

Shifting on his feet, Castiel stepped closer, and easing his hand to Dean’s neck, which made Dean feel his heart take a beat, Castiel stared at him tenderly.

“You though, you did far more than just that. You—I had never been drawn to anyone like this before. You, your spirit. Your heart. Your compassion. Even your sorrow. Your human nature was so raw, so soothing and inviting, I managed to manifest myself into being. Not quite as human as I once was, but the closest I have ever been in a very long time.”

Tightening the grip on his coat, Dean was holding on to Castiel’s every word.

“You made this possible, Dean. And not because you did something wrong. Not because you didn’t follow the rules. Not because you lacked a certain skill, or even because you had an extra one. You did it by simply being you. That’s all that was needed. And you need to remember this. Don’t you know how truly formidable you are?”

Dean couldn’t talk. The lump in his throat made it impossible and he was focusing all his energy to fight back his tears, his heart heavy.

When he finally felt like he could utter something comprehensively again, he began saying, “Cas, I—there’s something I—if—if what you say is true—that our connection made it possible for you to be here, then maybe—maybe after some time—if you pace yourself—maybe eventually it won’t hurt you anymore? Maybe—”

But Castiel shook his head.

“I was about to tell you earlier…Being here physically in this form is technically not what is causing me pain, Dean.” He winced, as he drew a breath. “I’m—I’m afraid I omitted one part in my story.”

“What?” Dean’s level of anxiety was already high enough. He didn’t know how much else he could take. “What is it?”

“You see, there was a reason why I was picked to be King Michael’s warrior. It wasn’t a random decision.”

“The King picked you personally?”

“Not the King. The Shadow.”

Dean frowned.

“Years before, during a gruesome battle, I somehow winded up within its grasp. I managed to escape, and I told the King about it. That’s how he knew about the entity. And when the King found it and asked for help, the Shadow was furious to be dragged into this matter, as I told you. Having seen deep into my soul, he knew my hopes and dreams. He knew what I longed for in life. So, as a retribution for my intrusion, he handpicked me to become the King’s puppet of destruction, which stripped me of everything I ever had, thus ensuring that I would never get what I craved most. I felt empty. Until I—until you—”

Eyeing Dean’s lips, he slid his hand higher, against Dean’s cheek. His thumb brushed on his skin.

And just as he opened his mouth to say something, he choked on his words, paused for a moment, only to let out a deep cry, hunching himself forward.

“Cas?”

He caught his breath and slowly repositioned as he was before, thinking his pain had passed, but it came back immediately.

Dean wrapped his arms around him, so he wouldn’t completely fall. He froze, however, once he noticed various scars were slowly appearing on Castiel’s face. He almost looked as though he had been scorched.

And it was worsening with every second.

“Cas, what’s happening? What—what do you need?”

After a short wail, Castiel said, “The archway. I need to—I—I have to leave. I’m sorry. I don’t want to but I—”

Castiel let out another cry.

But this time, the whole cabin shook. The place was now ten times warmer. The fire was brighter. The wind was howling. And the door flew wide open.

The next thing he knew, Dean was helping Castiel reach the archway. They stumbled a few times, but persisted.

Too soon for Dean’s taste, they were already standing in front of the archway.

Castiel let go of him, and with a faint smile, asked him to take a step back for caution. Dean, beside himself at what he was doing, knowing what was about to happen, did as instructed nonetheless.

He watched Castiel slowly approach the archway, gripping one side with one hand, as to not fall off. But right before fully stepping into the threshold, Castiel looked back.

He seemed so battered and in pain, Dean could barely breathe. The scars were even worse than before. They had spread, and now black veins were forming on his neck and his temple.

“I’m sorry, Dean. This wasn’t how I wished to part with you. But I’ll still be here. One form or another.”

And before Dean could say anything, before he could question him or protest or plead, Castiel shut his eyes, suppressing another jabbing pain, and unable to delay the inevitable, he took a short step, crossing the archway.

And just like that, he disappeared from Dean’s view.

Dean stayed where he was, scanning frantically in front of him, searching for him.

And then, subtly, he felt the ground shake beneath his feet. Not like before, though. Barely enough to notice.

But he had noticed. And then, like how Castiel had suddenly disappeared in front of him, the face of the mountain reappeared in front of him.

Stepping towards the archway in turn, Dean observed the mountain through it.

How peaceful it still seemed.

The next few days had not been kind to Dean. He barely slept or ate. His mind and emotions had been all over the place.

He kept replaying the whole day in his mind.

Their last conversation. Castiel’s terrifying state. Castiel’s goodbye. 

Castiel.

The whole ordeal on its own was enough to push him over the edge of despair, once and for all.

He had a small glimmer of hope, at first, when he repeated to himself that Castiel was simply regaining his strength. He needed to heal and once that was done, he would come back. No matter what he had told him about the Shadow’s curse.

So, he did the best he could. He continued with the offerings and waited for Castiel’s return.

And for a little while, that reasoning worked.

It quickly faded, however, when by the fifth day Castiel had still not come back, and worse, had shown no sign of his presence.

No pull in his heart. No hum or deep breaths that had so often resonated through Dean. No sudden shift of calm that he had experienced since the moment he had resided on the mountain.

Not a single thing.

As troublesome as this fact was, Dean’s morale took another blow when he finally got around to reading Sam’s newest letter.

With the tribulations that had occurred on that day, the letter had completely slipped his mind, and he only remembered about it when he found it tucked into his journal, which he had purposely ignored over the last few days.

Unusually so, Sam’s letter offered little comfort, except for the part where he expressed, like in his last letter, his desire to eventually come visit Dean.

While this was still a nice thought, the rest of the letter brought shocking information to Dean.

Apparently, Sam had realized too late that the tea and other herb blends he had sent Dean on the previous month, could cause serious side effects, and advised him to stop consuming them immediately should he experience one of these symptoms.

Heightening of senses, time loss, and vivid hallucinations, being the most prominent ones.

Dean was ready to dismiss that claim on the spot, feeling that he hadn’t experienced any of these symptoms.

Until he began looking back on the timeframe of his previous month. And the moment he remembered first drinking the tea on the very night Castiel first arrived, Dean felt his stomach drop. And unfortunately, his panic only intensified when he realized that he had drunk the tea every single day Castiel had visited.

And that he hadn’t drank one drop since his last visit.

He contemplated how intensified his senses had been. From smell to taste.

And though he could only account for that one night, he still hadn’t remembered how his first conversation with Castiel had ended.

If Dean had been upset before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now.

He was utterly destroyed.

Weeks passed and brought no change.

Everything was quiet.

Since Dean still had some tea leaves left, he had been tempted to make himself a cup just to see what would happen.

He figured that at least, that way, he would know the truth.

But it would be a hard truth. One that Dean didn’t feel emotionally stable enough to swallow.

He already felt foolish enough as it was.

Foolish to believe that he could have found peace of mind.

Foolish to believe he wouldn’t spend the rest of his days alone.

Foolish to believe someone had seen value in him that no else had before.

In the end, however, Dean put the tea leaves away, out of sight. While they offered a compelling argument against the existence of Castiel, Dean could not resign himself to that idea.

After all, the _presence_ had been detectable years before he had made this forsaken cup of tea. Not only by him, but by the other Hunters, as well. Surely, that counted for something.

So, he tried to not lose hope, and believe in his heart what had happen had been real.

This was easier said than done. But he nonetheless tried.

He visited the archway multiple times a day, to speak to him, to pray to him, to carry on with the offerings in hope of his return.

He sang his favourite songs. He listened to his own breathing, thinking of him.

It was difficult. Many times, the lack of results or even indication that Castiel existed was discouraging.

And soon, the grim days turned into desolate weeks.

And still no sign of Castiel.

Loneliness was hitting more than ever. And ironically, so was the desire to isolate himself.

Until one morning, when he was returning from a hunt, he felt it.

The smallest pull in his chest. It had been so subtle that he wondered if he had imagined it. He came to a sudden halt, waiting for it again.

Listening. Hoping to feel it resonate through his chest.

And for an instant more it had seemed like it had been a product of his imagination, much to his dismay.

But then it hit him again. Almost felt it up to his throat. Dean dropped whatever he was holding and ran as fast as he could towards the archway.

He dropped to his knees quickly, however, not even halfway there. He could still see it. The face of the Mountain.

It was still there. Stubborn, Dean lifted himself and reached the archway anyway.

As he thought, unfortunately, it was just as he had left it earlier that day.

No one was waiting for him.

And the Mountain still intact.

Uncaring of the time, Dean remained on the same spot for a while, staring in front of him. Waiting for him.

But nothing happened. Only the soft wind against his face was responding.

He turned on his heel, ready to returned home, when he stopped, and abruptly faced the Mountain again.

He stepped on the base of the archway. At the threshold.

Something he had never dared doing. He extended an arm cautiously, and as expected, nothing happened.

He let his arm fall. But he remained grounded and shut his eyes.

“Cas? I—I don’t know if you can hear me. If you’re even here.” He swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat. “I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know what to do. I—I feel—I want—I—I want you to—I—”

He let out a sigh of frustration, feeling his chest tightening. He cleared his throat, and whispered, “Cas, I—you know I’m not good at asking for help. I’m not good at asking for what I want, either. Probably because you’re right. I don’t think I deserve much. And I did see this responsibility as a punishment. But being here _with you_ , even before, that wasn’t the punishment. That’s what made me keep it together for this long. You helped me. You have no idea how much. And what I want is for you to be okay. I want you to be with me. And be free. I—I want you. And thinking you’re out there, trapped, and I can’t do anything about it—”

Shaking his head, fighting back the tears, Dean let out a deep sob. He shut his eyes tightly, and took a moment to regain composure. He focused on his breathing, inhaling the cold air. He rested one hand on his chest, and continued breathing deeply, clearing his mind as best he could.

One good thought. One positive thought, amongst the heaviness of his fears and hopelessness, to focus on.

So that it could reach Castiel. Let their bond do the rest.

“Cas, I’m here. I’m here and I can honestly say, this is where I want to be. I don’t care if it takes years. I don’t care if—I’m here. I’m here for you. I’m here with you. And believing— _knowing_ —you’re here with me, that’s all I need. And I know you are.”

He reopened his eyes, his heart feeling slightly lighter.

“I’m here, Cas.”

Two months had passed since.The days were long and still quiet.

Dean felt the faint pull as he had before. And like before, he hurried towards the archway to see if Castiel had returned.

But it was the same. No one in sight and the impressive Mountain. 

And every time, Dean felt his chest tightened at the realization. He did his best to not lose hope. He did everything he could think of to not let his mind go there. He sang, as it often cheered himself up. He re-read old letters of Sam he had kept over the years, particularly the ones he remembered being funny.

He cooked himself silly meals—while still being conscious of moderating food, of course—and enjoyed every bite of it. 

He also continued practicing Castiel’s training routines. Dean was sure he had gotten many moves wrong, and it wasn't the same without Castiel by his side. But it improved his move for the rest of his day sometimes. Even with his leg bothering him. And he got into the habit of carrying Castiel’s silver blade everywhere with him. He didn’t need it. Not even on hunts. This blade wasn’t for hunting. But just having it on him was doing him good, so he didn’t question it. 

He was done questioning his actions if it eased his soul. Especially if it made him feel closer to Castiel.

As he was taking off the kettle from the fireplace one evening, an unusual feeling flashed through him that almost made him drop the kettle on the ground.

This was new. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but this wasn’t like before. He remained still as a statue, waiting to see if it would occur again. But it didn’t.

Dean carried on with his evening. Tended to the fire. Fetched an additional blanket because he found himself shivering a few times.

And as he was thinking about getting ready for bed, his stomach dropped when he heard a knock on the door.

And before Dean had time to reach the handle, despite rushing towards the door, it flew wide open.

Revealing Castiel standing in front of him.

“Hello Dean.”

After taking a brief moment to stare at him, in disbelief, Dean, unable to speak, wrapped his arms around him and glued himself to him.

Resting cheek to cheek, Dean was suddenly shocked by how cold his skin felt.

“Cas, you—you’re freezing!”

“I am a bit chilly, yes.”

Dean immediately shut the door behind him, and slowly moving away from the entrance, he directed Castiel to sit on the rocking chair by the fire after wrapping him with the thick wool.

Still holding him by one hand, as though Dean was worried that he might disappear if he didn’t, Dean slid the kitchen chair closer, facing him.

“You’re here. I can’t be—I’m so happy you’re here.”

Castiel squeezed his hand. “I heard what you said. Well, I heard and felt you every day since, but I heard your prayer at the archway.”

Swallowing, Dean felt exposed. But he didn’t look away.

“I’m sorry I took so long. I—I was worried that…I know you’ve been filled with doubt since.”

“It was rough,” admitted Dean. “Not seeing you. Not even knowing if—it’s been a rough couple of months.” He slid himself closer. “But that’s why it makes me so happy now.”

Smiling at him, Castiel began shivering.

And the fact that he couldn’t warm up was not a good sign, and reminded Dean of Castiel’s price to be here with him.

“Cas, how—how long can you stay? And how are you feeling right now?”

“I don’t know. I—it doesn’t feel the same.”

“What doesn’t?”

He gave Dean a worried look. “Everything. The air is different. I’m cold and my stomach hurts.”

“Like last time?”

“No. Not like last time. I think…I don’t think I have my powers anymore.”

He lifted one arm towards the fire. Squinting, he shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

Dean was waiting for the flames to turn blue as they always did, but the flames remained bright orange. Nothing around them changed nor did anything magic-wise happen.

Not even the wind growing stronger.

“I—I can’t do it,” he said, reopening his eyes, sounding defeated.

“Okay. Is that a bad thing though?”

“I can’t say. The fact that I could before and that being here had its limits then is not reassuring.”

Dean had to agree, unfortunately.

“That being said,” mused Castiel, “maybe…”

“What?”

His hand over his own heart, Castiel fell silent, lost in thoughts.

“I don’t feel it. This emptiness. I—I don’t think I can explain it into words. But it was like this overwhelming feeling that I had to constantly fight against until it was too tiresome and I had to return. But it’s gone. I don’t sense it anymore. So maybe…”

“Maybe you’re human.”

Just by looking at him, Dean knew he had voiced what Castiel had feared saying out loud.

“Maybe we did a better job this time. Our bond. Maybe—I don't know..." Dean sighed in frustration, as he failed to find a perfect explanation. "You say you don’t have your powers anymore," he added, trying to sound chipper. "You’re freezing, which you never did before, even when you were feeling like crap. Sounds human to me.”

Castiel’s sole response was a shy smile.

“Yeah, that’s probably too good to be true,” said Dean.

There was a pregnant pause, during which they both eyed one another, dwelling on the matter deeply.

Too many questions were piling up. Many of which might not be answered until much later, if ever.

And this was why Dean decided to push this nonsense aside.

“Cas, the mild discomfort you talked about, are you feeling okay?”

He nodded.

“And you’re happy to be here?”

“Of course,” he said, with a genuine smile.

“Okay. Then, that’s all I care about. Instead of worrying about when or why—how about we just focus on now? I'm not saying to ignore everything, but whatever happens, if you need to go back or anything else, we’ll deal with that then.”

“And if I don’t need to go back?”

“If you can and wish to stay here indefinitely, then I can’t complain about anything ever again. Cas, I—I’d rather have you…cursed or not.”

And as though he had been waiting for those words, Castiel pushed the blankets away, and grabbing Dean’s shirt, pulled him closer and kissed him.

Feeling his warmth invade him, clearing his mind like nothing else, and his lower back tingling, if Dean had ever wondered about Castiel’s existence before, it was no longer a question.

Catching their breaths, they rested their foreheads against one another.

“I should have done that a long time ago.”

“You wanted to?”

Castiel held down a grin.

“What?” asked Dean.

“I don’t know how to say this without making you feel uncomfortable.”

Dean reflected on his comment and then said, “Now, I need to know for sure.”

Resting his hand on his chest, he slid himself closer, until their knees were touching.

Feeling his breath on his lips.

“Before—when I hadn’t visited you yet—I may not have been here physically, but I was still present with you on the mountain.” He playfully twisted one of the buttons of Dean's shirt. “I was there during those lonely nights. The cold and harsh winters when body warmth seemed appealing to you. Or the sweet and sometimes sticky summer nights too. When you craved company. I was there.”

Dean stared at him. He somehow felt both idiotic and excited.

How did he never realize this before? Castiel did feel everything because of their connection. From his joy, down to his misery. All the ups and downs.

“Like…all the time?”

Castiel nodded.

Dean bit on his lips.

“That…what was that like?”

Sliding his hand downwards, Castiel said, “A tad frustrating to be honest.”

Dean took a deep breath.

“And now?”

“It’s a good thing I know what you like.”

The cockiness, Dean couldn’t help but laugh.

“Somebody is very sure of himself.”

“About this? _Very_.” And Castiel’s mouth found the base of his neck.

And no longer able to resist, Dean gently nudged him towards the bed, with which Castiel was happy to comply.

It had been weeks since Castiel’s return. And no issue had risen. No discomfort. No pull.

No powers. Just Castiel by his side. And Dean couldn’t ask for anything better.

After a long talk, they had decided to continue in the same mindset Dean had suggested. They enjoyed the moment. Dean continued with the offerings as he always did, despite not feeling the overwhelming presence as he once did. And Castiel promised to be honest should he feel himself shifting to his older self, or should any pain occur.

But so far, they had been lucky.

In case something should turn badly, they had both agreed remaining at the cabin was probably the best option for them both. As was keeping this secret.

But Dean was soon faced with a small problem. The surprisingly delightful turn of events had felt like a dream too good to be true.

He often wondered, however, late at night, as he listened to Castiel’s deep soothing breaths next to him in bed, if he wasn’t hiding behind this situation, no matter how wonderful it made him feel.

Staying at the cabin and the mountain for the rest of his life, alone with Castiel, wasn’t a dreadful idea. Quite the opposite.

But their isolation, though welcomed as a privacy, felt sometimes grim. Particularly when he considered the fact that no one else knew about Castiel.

To be clear, Dean had no issues keeping Castiel to himself. He knew it might sound a bit possessive, but having someone for himself, after having been that cut off from the world, was somewhat reassuring.

But in not sharing his experience, not mentioning him by name to anyone else, and the fact that no one else knew he even existed—not in that way, anyway—made Dean feel like his whole experience and love for him was cheapened. He knew it wasn’t. He knew it didn’t take anything away from them and what they had was real.

That he was real.

But after all this time, he felt like they were both entitled a bit more than just feeling like they were each other’s dirty secret.

While Dean didn’t dare announce it to the whole world, he thankfully knew of one person who would take him at his world, and would be happy for them.

Dear Sam,

Thank you for the thoughtful and informative letters. I knew I could count on you. Nothing would make me happier than to see you on this mountain. I have no idea if the council would allow it. I shall attempt to convince them on my end, but I have a feeling that if there is anyone who can persuade them to allow it, it will be you.

I think it will appease your mind regarding my situation here. If for some reason you cannot come, I need to tell you now that, I promise, I am happy. The kind of happiness where I catch myself smiling out of the blue. I am glad of what I found here. And the idea of remaining on this mountain is a gift. One so great that I often wonder if I deserve it. But I am continually being told I do.

You’ll understand when you’ll see it.

Hope you are well.

Dean

And when Dean finished the letter, he looked up from the table at Castiel, who was enjoying his daily spoonful of honey, which always brought a smile to Dean’s face.

Hearing the birds singing, Dean peeked at the spring sun. The snow was melting and soon, the warm weather would roll in. And staring at the faceless mountain, Dean couldn’t help but smile. It was gone, but the story and vibe somewhat remained.

The giant gone. And the warrior replaced.

And enjoying the peace, he had been promised, at last.

Which was something far better shared.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed this fic. As I mentioned at the beginning, writing this fic has been a struggle.  
> Plot-wise, the story ended up being a very different story than what I had initially planned. Due to deadlines and life, I had to change a few things. And yet, the core and themes are oddly, exactly the same. I'd say go figure, but considering what they are, I can see why they were on my mind.
> 
> Thank you to [deliciousirony](https://delicious-irony.tumblr.com/post/645943364180672512/the-hunters-oath) for your superb art that inspired the fic. I daydreamed about it a lot lol. I can't get over how beautiful the dividers are. You've been extremely patient with me 💙💜💙
> 
> And of course, once again, thank you to [Danica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danica_Dust/pseuds/Danica_Dust) and Landrala who are simply the best. Your support means everything and I cannot believe how lucky I am to have you in my life.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](https://thefandomsinhalor.tumblr.com), where I reblog a crazy amount of beautiful fan art, if anyone wants to say hi 😊
> 
> I hope you have a nice day and that you are safe ❤️


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